One mama. Two boys. And a Mother’s Day I will never forget.
Some stories take time to tell. Some take time to live. And some, like this one, start with a whisper of fear, a whole lot of faith, and a baby who came out gray but never once lacked color in our lives.
From the very start, Patrick’s pregnancy was complicated — like, textbook-chapter-worthy complicated. We were juggling placenta previa early on (thankfully, it resolved), gestational diabetes that showed up the moment I got that positive test, and eventually, preeclampsia that turned into full-blown HELLP syndrome. I started insulin at six weeks, but thanks to careful monitoring, medication, and managing my diet to the letter, I didn’t gain a single pound the entire pregnancy. It was hard — but it was handled. That part, at least, I had under control.
Originally, I was scheduled for a C-section on David’s birthday — and y’all, I was so upset. My boys were going to share a birthday? I wanted them each to have their own special day. Funny thing is… we were just off by a few days in the end. What started as a May 5th baby became an April 30th miracle — exactly what we prayed for.
But before we got to April 30th, Patrick tried to come early — way too early. It was February 28, smack in the middle of a Texas snowstorm, when I found myself in preterm labor at 28 weeks. I was not about to risk the freeway trying to get to my usual hospital, so I went straight to the nearest one with a Level III NICU. One nurse tried to fuss at me, but I looked her square in the eye and said, “Ma’am, I can tell you everything you want to know about this pregnancy, including every complication. Do you really want me playing ice-capades on the freeway tonight?” That shut that down quick.
That night, we also lost Kevin’s Grandma Francis — and I believe with my whole heart she stood between heaven and that tiny baby and said, “Not yet.” She held him in from the other side.
Kevin and Suzanne flew to California for her funeral with David. I couldn’t go — it wasn’t safe for me to fly. They made it out during a break in the weather, just before things got worse again. About a week later, another March storm rolled in — snow and ice — and that one shut everything down.
Meanwhile, I stayed behind, quietly praying we could hold out just a little longer.
By God’s grace and a whole lot of prayer, we did. We made it to April 30. Barely.
That day was full of chaos and kindness.
When I got the call, I was sitting in the backyard, about to finally eat breakfast at almost lunchtime, watching David play on his brand-new swing set — the one his daddy had just finished putting together the night before. It had been raining for weeks, and this was the first day he really got to enjoy it. The swing set had been his birthday gift from Nanna, ordered and picked up early so he would have it ahead of his new baby brother. He was all smiles, and I was just soaking in the moment… right before the day flipped upside down. That’s when the call came in — the one telling us we’d be having the baby that day.
I called Kevin at work — and y’all, he was a temp at the time. He rarely answered his phone while on the clock. But that day, he picked up. The ladies at his work had just surprised him with a little baby shower for Patrick, and as soon as he got the call, he ducked out so we could go have our baby. (He was officially hired on full-time the week of Small Fry’s first Christmas.)
I had posted in our parish mom’s group, asking if someone could watch David, and a sweet mama I already knew from the group stepped in without hesitation. She offered not only to watch him, but to make it a little birthday playdate so my boy could still feel celebrated while his world was being turned upside down.
When the C-section turned from scheduled to emergency, she took him in without question. She sent dinner home with Kevin, like it was nothing — like we were family. That’s the kind of quiet Christian charity that humbles you straight to the bone.
While I was holding it together, Nanna Patti was calling Auntie Suz. And Lord, bless her — Suz made it from Oklahoma City to Fort Worth in time for Patrick’s birth. She didn’t have a full overnight bag, but she did have grit. She stopped to pump gas while eating a burger, and bought a brand new digital camera on the way — because you better believe she wasn’t missing a single moment. Only Auntie Suz could make a sprint like that look like a Sunday stroll.
On our way to drop David off, we picked up Chick-fil-A for him and Kevin — a little comfort in a day that was anything but. I couldn’t eat, of course, but I still went inside and picked it up like a mama on a mission.
Because when you live 1,800 miles away from family, this is what it looks like: You build your village from scratch, and on the hardest days, the Lord sends just the right people to stand in the gap.
And those village mamas showed up. The moms from our parish rallied together while I was still in the hospital, taking turns watching David, checking in, making sure we had meals, and just showing up in ways that made all the difference. I’ll never forget that kind of grace-in-action.
Patrick was born at 6:12 PM on April 30th — 18 inches long, strong-willed from the start.
When we got the call, we packed up fast — but ended up waiting hours at the doctor’s office before we were finally sent over to the hospital. I was exhausted, anxious, and trying to stay calm while every minute felt like a mile.
Once I was admitted, it all moved fast. I was surrounded by nurses getting me prepped for the OR — and I’m not gonna lie, it took everything in me not to jump off that table and run. I was scared. Really scared. But I stayed. Because that’s what mamas do.
When I first got pregnant, my doctor said, “We’re going to try for 39 weeks this time.” David had come at 37 weeks, so that was the plan. I laughed. Not to be disrespectful — but because I knew. Somewhere deep down in my bones, I just knew we weren’t making it to 39 weeks. And sure enough, Patrick came at 36.
Because when you’re carrying a storm in your belly wrapped in grace, you don’t look at due dates — you just hold on and pray.
He came out gray. Quiet. They saw a uterine window so thin they could see his hair through it. Had we waited, my uterus would have ruptured. We could’ve lost everything.
But then — through the whirlwind of the OR — I heard a soft, familiar voice in the background. The NICU nurse who caught him was the very same woman who taught my birthing class when I was pregnant with David. She had a gentle German accent and the kindest presence — a NICU mom herself, to triplets. Calm. Kind. Steady. And somehow, hearing her voice in that moment told me, He’s here. He’s okay.
Then they whisked him away on CPAP. And just after I heard that tiny cry for the first time, I broke down too. Relief, fear, love — it all hit me at once. That sound was everything.
And of course… Patrick arrived during the one week my OB was out of town. She was off enjoying Disney World, and I was in the middle of a medical emergency. Because of course he would choose that week. That’s just who he is — always showing up in his own way, on his own time.
Once I was able to get up and moving, I walked down to the NICU every couple of hours to nurse him. Daddy and big brother helped give him his very first bottle — one of those sweet moments that still makes my heart melt.
Until my milk came in, Patrick received donor breastmilk. And here’s what makes that full-circle: with David, I had an oversupply and donated to the North Texas Milk Bank — and then again with Patrick, years later. We donated over 5 gallons total between the two boys.
The funny thing is, Patrick wouldn’t touch milk if it had been frozen — no matter how I tried. Once I returned to work, it got harder to keep a surplus since I was working long shifts. But I still look back with such gratitude that even in those earliest days, he was cared for by so many — some I’ll never even meet.
He spent nine days in the NICU, throwing A’s and B’s (apnea and bradycardia) like it was his full-time job. He was the biggest baby in there at 7 lbs. 6 oz. — our chunky little NICU warrior.
And all the while, it stormed.
I’m not talking a little drizzle. I mean it rained every day for a solid month. Texas spring storms — loud, dark, howling. And just like during the pregnancy, when every thunderclap would bring on contractions, those storms rattled Patrick too. To this day, he still doesn’t like thunder or lightning.
Every night, I’d sit up in that NICU holding him — sometimes until midnight or 1 AM, waiting for the storms to pass. I wouldn’t leave until it was calm. Kevin stayed home with David, holding things down for our big boy, while I made the drive alone — exhausted, healing, and holding tight to hope. During the day, I was home with David — trying to hold steady, trying to make life feel normal for my big boy who was turning four right in the middle of all of it.
I was discharged the night before David’s birthday. Still sore, barely upright from surgery — but I came home and blew up balloons and hung streamers anywhere I could reach without climbing. Because in his little heart, birthdays meant decorations. And I couldn’t bear for him to feel forgotten.
That’s what motherhood looks like sometimes: Holding one baby in the NICU, Holding space for another at home, And holding yourself together with prayer, grit, and half-deflated balloons.
Both my babies — David and Patrick — came home on Mother’s Day. That’s not just poetic. That’s divine.
And now? That once-gray little fighter is a brilliant, funny, tenderhearted boy who dreams of being a veterinarian. He rubs my back when I’m hurting and brings more joy to our home than I ever could’ve dreamed.
There’s not a day I don’t thank the Lord — and Grandma Francis — for holding the line until he was safe. As I write this, I’m sitting here wiping tears with my apron — because this story still takes my breath away.
Simple Southern Mommy 